


Murder What Matters To You (then move on)

by krynon (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death, Gen, Imperialism, Politics, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 03:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/krynon
Summary: (OR, the man is imperial)He realises it all at once, really. There were plenty of ways he could have died.A bomb could’ve got him, he might have been before firing squad one too many times, he might’ve lost a world war.He didn’t expect-One day, and he knows it now, sure as the creak in his bones and the ache in his joints, he’s just going to fall asleep and not wake up.





	Murder What Matters To You (then move on)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic has been sitting in my drafts since 2015. It is not perfect, and I no longer agree with some of the ideals it puts across.
> 
> Regardless, it is something that I poured my soul into writing, at the time. It is unbetad, so please let me know if you spot anything off.

The economy is in tatters, and he is not about to be left behind by the whims and wiles of the Euro. He does not have the time or patience to share a currency, not least with Germany and his Chancellor nipping at his heels.  
Austerity isn't working, and his people start to ache. So England spends several billion on an economic stimulus. He ignores the EU’s calls for increased immigration and ignores the cries of his government for decreased migration. He ignored Interpol, and he most certainly ignores his boss’ Cabinet.

His job, after all, is not that of a politician.

England devotes his time elsewhere, and focuses on building the infrastructure of the primary sector of his economy. He will not be left behind again. And he’ll be honest. Even one billion pounds was a lot of money. But he won’t lie.

It does not seem like a tough decision at the time.

***

India corners him in a meeting, sari wrapped tight into her fingers.

"How is it," she says, and stares at him brutally from several inches under his eye level, "that you have a billion pounds to spare for your businessmen, but you never have so much as a penny for your old slaves?" She spits the words, and he doesn't blame her. Regardless, the judder in his spine goes repressed and steeled under his grip, because India was dangerous as a shark in bloodied waters, and he was not about to fall prey to those tombstone teeth.

"It's because I'm good at saving I suppose. I’m better at ignoring the EU these days, too-"  
"No," India spits and growls. "It is because you never had a heart."

England scowls and starts to speak, but her finger is jammed between his collarbone and rib, on him hard enough to hurt.  
"You lack one shred of compassion. Half the world is calling for aid," she says, "You need to let go of imperialism."

He scowls and shrugs.  
He does not say disagree. Compassion, after all, had only very recently become something expected of a Nation. Before, when they’d been bloodless gods, and nations had just faded, not died, there been no need for compassion. At least, he reconsiders, not in Europe, anyway.

"You are as vulnerable as the rest of us. Do not forget, England, that ‘British Values’ will not sustain you for long.” She spits the term, and he doesn’t blame her. “Learn to take care of your family, England, and you might not get hurt so much."

He doesn't know if she means he's getting hurt, or if he’s hurting others.

He wonders if they’re the same anyway.

***

The meeting is fragmented and boring, deep in Brussels and hopelessly antiquated in its formality. It sounds for all to hear like the Oxbridge debating teams, and while he’s got nothing against a little bit of ceremony and pomp (England loves pomp), there is a line to be drawn somewhere.

This whole thing has frankly crossed it; paper memos are out sent by post afterwards, and for some reason, the meeting has forgone the projector bolted to the ceiling and instead has erected a whiteboard along the back wall. It is all utterly irrelevant because Nation-Tongue could not be written, and England is not fluent in even half of the languages present today. He can force out a mangled Swahili or Mandarin, but beyond that, it’s Romance, German or bust. Arabic flies past his ears in conversation, just enough to get past but not nearly enough for trying to decide upon military force and treaty.

England tries not to focus on it, but India’s words have burrowed deep into him, sitting like an angry bird on a nest filled with cuckoos.

He's not very useful, here.

***

Two hundred and something years ago, England stood in an old English Country House, buried in the middle of India.  
India lays a dog beneath his sword, and frankly with bleeding like that he doesn’t blame her.  
England presses his sword into her ribs: “Company business, you understand.”  
Indie howls and England can only appreciate the devastating beauty of the scene.

(In a few days, he looks at the mirror and reflects that there really is something very wrong here. Nation turned on Nation turned on People. Then he goes back to digging at India’s resistance.)

***

"Look," he announces. This meeting is EU only, and he sticks out like a sore thumb. "I can hardly be expected to control my boss, that's why he's my boss."

Germany is glaring- to renegotiate the European Convention on Human Rights was beyond disrespectful, to him especially, would (arguably) invalidate everything he'd done to stop history repeating itself.

"You know as well as I do, England. That is hardly an excuse."

England frowns as someone in the back sniggers at the spectre of the war.  
"What can I do? The people elected him, I can hardly be seen to revolt in this day and age: I'll be extradited, for god's sake! I have to renegotiate, it's my only option."

Germany slams his papers onto the table.  
"And as I have told you, England. We will not be ‘negotiating’ with you." He glares and spits his words, like something dirty clings to his tongue.

"I-" England sighs and rages against his perfectly fitted suit. "Look, what can I do? If you can see another option here, please enlighten me."

They can't. France suggests that he leaves altogether without any renegotiations. England snorts a little at that- France had been his ‘best friend’ under his last boss. After Hollande had come to power, their relationship had… soured.

Regardless, all he has to do is mention the weakness of the Euro against the pound, and he knows it's clear they're at a stalemate.  
He can't leave without taking money out of the economy, and he can't stay without ripping out part of Europe's human rights.  
England does not say any more at that meeting.

***

But of course, they can hardly kick him out. He might be more trouble than his boss is worth, but England knows full well that declining as he is, he's still got enough economic clout to maintain Western Europe's supremacy, keep the younger States from rising up. Certainly enough clout to keep France from running his mouth to his Boss.

There are fights though. Very quiet, sharp-tongued fights. The kind of argument he hasn’t had since Napoleon. Since before Napoleon.

***

India confronts him again.

“You do so little for those you actually care about.” She’s got a snarl on her face, long hair braided to the side with strands of something silver tied around it. Somewhat morbidly, he can’t stop thinking of garrotte wire.

He sneers at her, but by the time the next EU meeting rolls around, and France punches him square in the jaw, all he can do is try to forget their infrequent conversations.

He tells his boss that he won't negotiate for him, after that.  
If he gets excluded from some meetings he probably should have been in, then so be it.

***

"America!" England claps him across the back with a grin. It's nice, to not be trying to punch him or to be holding back tears. It's good to be just... Brothers, for once. The genuine warmth was hard to come by these days, especially with America’s boss joining the hounds dogging England’s heels. “It’s good to see you.” He means it, despite himself.

"Hey, England!” He’s as bright as ever. He wears sunglasses pushed up over his floppy hair, regardless of the lack of sun. “How are ya, man? Your boss said you couldn't get to the meeting 'cause you were sick, are y'all okay?"

And, well. That just about nips the 'fun' in the bud. He feels the blood drain from his face.

"Wh- Excuse me?"

"I- dude,” America looks taken aback, which may well be fair enough because England is suddenly feeling freezing. “I'm just asking how you are."

"No, no-" England grabs his stupid jacket by the lapels, and glares up at him, holding his gaze and snarling. "The meeting- what meeting was it?"

America coughs and runs fingers through his hair.  
"Uh, man, I-"

"You'd better tell me it wasn't anything important-" He spits it, imagines India sneering at him and snarls. America's hands fly up.

"It wasn't, I wasn't- dude, calm down-"

"You're lying."

He's lying. Tripping over syllables as he tries to justify it- England has been left out of something important. He can read it off America like a fucking book- this isn't small-time economics, this is war, this is-

"Oh, fuck me."

America frowns at him and smooths his hands down his jacket, peering curiously at England from underneath his glasses.

"Man, I don't mean to be shitty? But what the fuck was that about?" To be fair, England is very peripherally pleased with America’s reaction. If he’d been as quick to anger as England was, he’d be sporting a shattered jaw by now. Regardless, the relief of it is minimal compared to the spreading dread in his gut.

"My boss is going to fire me." He doesn't even know it's true until he says it but it is, it is so true that it bites at him, a snarling thing built of all of the things he shouldn't have done, the injustice of it all and the screeches of India cracking beneath his boot-

America's eyes flash full, open and blue against the sunny day. It isn't apt, it isn't fair- the sun shouldn't be out on a day like this, not when- not when-

"My boss is going to fucking fire me."

***

He doesn’t speak much at the next few meetings. When he and France meet for a drink afterwards, they barely finish a pint before they’re throwing punches.

It’s hardly the fights of the old days, with flashing metal rather than the dull crash of leather gloves on skin, but it’s something.

France, for once, seems to catch on, and when he’s held up to the wall by England’s hand on his throat, he fights back rather than drawing the brawl to a close.

It’s a matter of course, really, but England relishes the smashed teeth. They’ll heal anyway, and very soon he may not have that luxury.

England runs his tongue over what’s left of his incisors and smiles savagely. France does not smile back, even though England is flat on his back and panting.

***

It isn't tumultuous. One day the Prime Minister invites him into his office, asks him if he knows why he's been invited. Of course he does, England is sharp as a tack and a strategist- if he'd been in his boss's situation, there's no doubt he'd have done the same- and the walls (and the tabloids, though only if you knew where to look) have been coated with whispers for weeks.

"Of course I do." He sits down pointedly anyway. England will make no missteps here, taut and fidgeting down to the nerves under his skin. "But for old time's sake, do enlighten me."

He channels India's worst (and best) smile, pulls the arrogance of the west into his bones and sneers.

"England, please. Do not make this difficult for me-"

England delights in leaning forward in a particularly imperious manner, and makes no attempt to hide it- he holds his age in his eyes and does his best to tower over the Prime Minister.

"Never, Prime Minister."

There's a crackling silence that England almost revels in, perversely- this might be the end of his existence, he might just pop out of being and just cease to be the moment his boss says the word- but it slips about his skin anyway, crawling in the muscles of his mouth as he smiles a Cheshire grin. He wishes he could remember what had happened to Prussia.

"Look, England, you're antiquated-" and at England's spread sneer towards his old Oxford photos, he stumbles but desperately picks himself up again- "And I simply cannot allow you to be around- to be a part of policy, rather, any longer. It's not very English."

And well. England thinks of the man that dug swords into India's flesh.

***

“You- you want me to renegotiate the Human Rights Act?! With the Germans!?!?” He can barely school his voice into English. It’s a preposterous idea, beyond thinkable. The very notion that he’d even want to try to-

“I cannot have the Europeans control our rights.”

He stares at his boss. “We are European.”

His boss stares back and chokes a snorted laugh in his throat. “Hardly.”

***

India stands at his doorstep. It’s the first time she’s been so… well. Perhaps brave was the wrong word. He hardly thought that anyone expected a fight from him, these days.

She’s dressed far more stylishly than he is- he’d thought to wear trousers instead of jeans and a shirt instead of a jumper, but beyond that, he had taken no effort at all. India, as usual, simply looked effortlessly stylish. It wasn’t quite the same as France’s elegance though. India, as she always had, still rather seemed like she was hiding some kind of weapon- some secret and some power she could use.

She dressed, he supposed, like someone that expected to be watched.

“Ah, India! Hello. What can I do for you, old friend?” He greets her as warmly as he can muster.

She’s got war in her eyes.

“Your union is falling apart.” She bites out at him, which he supposes is expected. After everything, she could hardly be asked to give him civility. He scoffs at her anyway.

“Hardly. I won the referendum. Scotland’s little escape attempt failed. The union is in perfect health.”

She regards him with something like incredulity.

“‘Hardly’,” She mimics and tosses a newspaper at him. The flash of her brightly coloured nails is oddly stark against the grey outside.

He catches it without much affair, and clasps at it gingerly- the ink, it seems, is still new, and smudges slightly at the tips of his fingers.

The headline reads- the - the headline-

“‘In perfect health’,” she repeats. “There are riots on your shores, dear England.”

“Riot in Scotland claims twelve,” he reads and takes a second to breathe.

There is, of course, no reason to think it was a separatist riot. He’d had support from half of Scotland in the vote, but that’s all he’d needed.

And, despite their history, it was unlikely that Scotland would…

He clears his throat. “There’s no reason to think it’s a separatist movement-”

India glares at him. “I have heard you say that before.”

And she’s right. She has.

“That’s… fair.” He replies, stepping back from the door to allow her through. She nods at him curtly as she moves through the threshold, pausing in the hall to remove her sunglasses and let him shut the door. “Can I offer you something? Coffee?”

She eyes him. “For a moment there, England, I almost thought you’d say tea.”

He smiles at her. “I wouldn’t dare.” His smile fades when she merely continues staring at him. “Besides, I could never brew your teas the way you like. There would be no point.” She raises her eyebrows and discards her coat. “I’d rather not antagonise you.”

“That’s wise,” she says, and that’s that.

They discuss trade routes and aid over coffee and biscuits, and it’s as civilised as it can be when India holds herself like some robot in front of him, straight-backed in a way England hasn’t seen in his living room for a long time.

She makes no move to fight him, and he’s glad of that.

When she leaves, he attempts to hand the paper back- all she does is press it back towards his abdomen and brush her hair out of her face.

“You’d be advised to keep it in mind, I think.”

He doesn’t have the chance to reply before she’s off and walking towards the taxi rank.

He glances back at the paper and scowls at it.

***

“Listen, England,” says the Prime Minister. “You refused to do your job. You stood in the way of progress. I simply cannot allow you…” he pauses, tastes the words on his tongue before he says them. “I can't allow your.... position to continue any longer. As I said. You’re antiquated.”

There’s a pause, where the Prime Minister laughs, glances to the floor and then back up to England’s speechless and cold gaze. He’s nervous, and England feels himself loom a little larger at the way sweat os beading at his brow.

“Besides, old friend,” England watches him tense as he says it, “It’s hardly like your decision was moral. It was circumstantial. Surely, you of all people can appreciate that circumstance controls my position, just as much as yours?”

He's probably not wrong, by historical standards: he's got rather a poor record at defending Human Rights. For him to choose now that it was important to him was rather inopportune for everyone, most of all his boss.

"All this over Europe?" England has to pause at his own statement. As if the rights of his people weren’t at the forefront. It had been a while since he’d had to fight for them so obliquely.

It was difficult to separate the two, but to him, it was abundantly clear that the debate wasn’t so much ‘pro-EU’ and ‘anti-EU’ so much as ‘pro-Human Rights Act’ and ‘anti-Human Rights Act’. “You mean to tell me that the bureaucracy annoys you that much?”

The Prime Minister looks at him squeamishly. "Not... Entirely."

England's look at him as he stands and thanks God that he can still feel the people beneath his bones.  
"Prime Minister, it will do you little good to lie to me now. Regardless- consider me to have handed in my notice. I’ll see you later, Prime Minister."  
He looks flustered, red face bright and shiny and drenched with sweat, and there's a pause before he makes a small, sad noise and nods.  
“Have a good day, sir,” England says.

“Good day, Arthur.”

He freezes on his way out of the door, and tries not to let the rush of ice down his spine bother him too much, “With all due respect, Prime Minister.” He turns around to face the other, and scowls. “Even without the job title, I am still very far from human.”

Then England turns on his heel and struts out of the building.

***

England sits at his desk and frowns at his newspaper.

The Human Rights Act (‘An Act to give further effect to rights and freedoms guaranteed under the European Convention on Human Rights; to make provision with respect to holders of certain judicial offices who become judges of the European Court of Human Rights’, recites England, dully) was both the problem and the solution. Back when it’d been passed, and the sovereignty of the law had been edged towards Europe, it had hardly been controversial. A few whispers, perhaps, but nothing more- his Boss had a majority, and England was more than happy to turn over some of his workload to a committee.

The calm had not lasted. His new Prime Minister, one leaning more to the right, had been… less than confident about the whole thing. But all the Act did was confirm a law he’d already been party to.

The European Convention on Human Rights (‘Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms’, he thinks) wouldn’t just go away. And Germany was hardly accommodating.

Neither, as it turned out, was his Boss.

Or, England supposed, his ex-Boss. If there had ever been a case of a nation being fired before, he’d certainly never heard of it.

The paper reads, in bold and solemn letters: “UK DELEGATION BLOCKED FROM EU MEETING ON SECURITY.”

He frowns, but turns the paper over, and goes back to his toast. It would not do to dwell.

***  
England wakes up one morning, and the Prime Minister signs a bill that wipes him out of existence.

England goes to bed that day feeling quietly smug at his continued living.

(He remembers, somewhat vaguely, that once something similar had happened with India. It’s an odd thought, and he does not dwell on it for long.)

***

He raps on the Prime Minister’s door with knuckles that are too small for his gloves. They shake, pain spasming across them as they do- but he knocks nonetheless.

It wouldn’t do to be impolite, even if these days nobody seems to be asking for his manners.

“Hello?” Says the voice on the end of the intercom. He doesn’t recognise it.

“Hello, I’m here to see the Prime Minister. I believe he requested my presence?”

A quiet moment and England taps his feet at the cold grey pavement. His shoes rub at the back, and he curses under his breath as he stands in the doorway. The policeman to his right politely seems not to notice.

“Ah yes, Mr Kirkland. Please do come on in.”

He scowls, and steps through the doorway.

***

Recently, he’s been ignoring the television. It’s not like it could be trusted anyway, and these days his attention is fading. He’s taken back to newspapers instead and wields a highlighter. When Nations come to visit him, they pointedly do not mention it.

They also neglect to mention that his fingers slip, that he hears crashes of plates that aren’t there- that his eyes dart around, and that in general, he instead seems to be losing his touch.

Having said that, England’s not entirely sure he ever had a touch.

Regardless, he’s out of a job, and it wouldn’t do to dwell, so England keeps highlighting.

***

When the news turns too dark and too consistent, he turns instead to old classics. He might have always been a sucker for Shakespeare, partly because he’d seen many in person, but he reads The Lord of the Rings more times than is strictly necessary.

It’s funny, really. Once, he’d have had no problems reading Old English. Even futhorc still came easy to him, runic though it was.

These days he stumbles over the wordy sentences of Churchill’s letters. The ones sent to him, marked with personal names rather than Nation, he doesn’t even bother with.

There would be no point to try.

***  
He sees shadows where there are none.

Certainly, it would not do to dwell on it. England was not one for playing games, these days. Least of all with his mind.

***

He realises it all at once, really.

There were plenty of ways he could have died.

A bomb could’ve got him, he might have been before firing squad one too many times, he might’ve lost a world war.

He didn’t expect-

One day and he knows it now, sure as the creak in his bones and the ache in his joints, he’s just going to fall asleep and not wake up.

***

He knocks briskly at the door. It’s blue, looks far newer than he’d been expecting, and does not have a doorbell.

Honestly. The year was 2018, a radical centrist held power in his country and technology was developing faster than England could even blink, and France couldn’t be bothered to install a doorbell?

He speaks French when he first opens the door. “Hello?” He says, and England pays his dues to their many wars that they can still understand each other.

Then he says, “Oh, fuck,” and the colour drains from his still irritatingly handsome face. “England, my friend, what the fuck happened to you?”

“That bad, eh?” England smiles and must reveal that some of his teeth are missing because France covers his own mouth and ushers him inside.

“Ah,” he mumbles. “I had not-”

“You hadn’t realised what it looked like.” England blinks. “What I look like. God. There’s probably something Freudian in that, referring to yourself in the objective.”

France gestures to the wooden chair that England has always insisted on sitting on then seems to pause, and England clocks the exact moment he notices the walking stick.

“Oh, England, I-” France looks positively distraught, and England takes a moment to sigh.

“It’s, I’m, My name is-”

France suddenly rushes over to him. “Arthur.” He chokes out. “What did they do to you?”

“I- um. I don’t-” he feels his throat tighten. He feels his chest burn and his tongue in his mouth. “I don’t exist, anymore.”

And then he bursts into tears and collapses.

***  
He turns up to the next meeting in a suit, as France’s plus one. They are not strictly allowed, but in all honesty, nobody was going to comment on today of all days.

He wears dentures paired with a face that’s never looked quite so old, and his occasional walking stick has become a permanent cane. Many nations had such aids, but England had never been one of them.

His black suit and greying hair strides into the meeting on faltering steps.

He’s been doing a lot of thinking, lately. There was nothing that could be done to rectify the atrocities he’d committed, over the long years. There was nothing that could be done to pretend they hadn’t happened.

But he could write a formal letter of advice to his Boss- ex-Boss, now. And he could apologise.

And his memory, according to Germany’s whispered words about what had happened to Prussia, was about to- well. Take a break. Forever.

He bites back a laugh at the morbid thought, and France, walking patiently beside him, looks briefly concerned before England shoots him a watery smile.

“I must address the room-”

“Ah,” says France, and pauses. “You… can’t read it anymore.” It’s meant as a question, England thinks, but it comes across as a statement.

And England realises, with a sickening clunk, that the Indo-European writing they used on the slides because so many of them understood, has faded into nonsense words.

And England knows, suddenly, the person he has to speak to first.

***

“I-“

She takes one look at him and steps away, taken aback.

“What,” he says. “Were you expecting Prussia?”

She smiles, but it’s forced. “Hardly. I’ve been expecting this conversation for a while.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nods, fingers curled around her- shawl. It had a word, but he can’t remember it.

“I’ll remember that,” he murmurs, “if I remember nothing else.”

“No, you won’t. You won’t remember anything.”

“You’re right. I’ll be dead.”

She laughs, morbidly.

“Hardly. Reborn, perhaps. Maybe as a human, this time. Something with a little less responsibility.”

“What is this,” England smiles. “Karma club?”

She scowls. “I’m not about to forgive you.”

He smiles wider. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

She blinks at that, then smiles briefly back. “Then maybe there is hope for you yet.”

And England takes that as his blessing and moves on.

He starts, after India, who he owed so much to, with the African nations he’d butchered his way through. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness from them either. None of them offer it.

He explains his advice slip, sent to the government and hopefully landed right on the table of the Prime Minister, and they thank him.

He repeats the conversation many, many times, with Nigeria, with Kenya, with Zimbabwe and everywhere else, and every time they thank him, and he thinks God, England wouldn’t have praised anyone for doing the basics, he would have expected them to do the basics without thanks.

Maybe India was right, and he would be reincarnated. If she was, he hopes he’s human. He prays to any god that would listen that it’s not another fucking lifetime of destroying people’s lives.

He pays his dues. Shakes hands and kisses hands and claps some shoulders, and he does it all with clawed fingers and chapped lips.

Nobody says anything.

So far nobody has any reason to miss him when he’s gone. He doesn’t blame them.

God, this was-

Fucking painful, and by the time he’s half of the way through the room he’s coughing desperately.

France gently pats his back. “England-”

America watches from the other side of the room. They’re avoiding each other, and that’s fine by England because he has enough apologies to get out that they might be here a little longer than the average meeting. The world didn’t stop for England, as had become rampantly evident, but certainly, he had enough friends in high places left over that he could have it slowed.

Australia accepts his apologies. He offers his own, his condolences, but England refuses to take what is not deserved and wipes the tears from his brother's cheek.

“You know what I did to deserve this.”

“Nobody deserves to die, you idiot.”

“Neither did your people.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not taking your apologies if you’re not even going to try and live-“

“It’s too late, Bruce,” and he hopes to all the god’s that will listen that Australia gets the joke, because it’s been too many years of murder to justify using names in a place like this-

“God, Nigel, I don’t think that makes it easier the way you think it does.”

So they hug each other, and Australia moves to the back of the room, by the door. He’s going to try and stop this from happening, probably, but for all England knew, he might not make it all the way out the door again.

Only time would tell.

“I wronged you in a way I can’t even articulate,” he says, to so many people that it might cheapen it, but he’s not asking for forgiveness. He’s certainly not going to ask for absolution. In front of many many islands, he kneels down and looks up at them and says he’s sorry and he means it but knows that what he’s done will not be fixed by that apology.

He’s confident that his spectre will not be felt forever.

He speaks to New Zealand after he’s talked to the many islands. They look like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces then and there, so he gives them a kiss on the cheek, says sorry, and then moves on. Just as he expected, they move to the back of the room to stand with their brother; they converse in a language he now can’t understand.

  
He makes his way through the Middle East and apologises for much more recent wrongs as well as far older ones. Much younger nations than he, some of them. It shouldn’t have been that way, of course, and he makes that clear. Several of them do not accept his apology, because it is not he that owes one, but another. He accepts that.

He does not necessarily believe that he hasn’t contributed, but if they feel he can move on, then so does he.

When he hits China, they share a significant look. China sits him on the padded chair he always requested. It was apparently for China’s aching back and rainy days, but today, England crumples into the cushion and makes a soft noise.

The whole room goes silent, and he thinks, okay-

But then China yells: “Keep talking, he’s not dead. I don’t have my apology yet.” When England’s eyes don’t open, China gives him a swift prod.

“Ouch. Bastard, who taught you manners?” England snaps before he can stop himself.

China raises an eyebrow. “Least of all you.”

And England opens his mouth to retort, before- he feels his whole body relax. “Oh-“

Short, sharp, sudden. His heart jolts in his chest and he’s suddenly very, very aware that his limbs don’t appear to be responding as they should.

China’s eyes widen in alarm. “England?”

His arm jolts to the left and he knocks a stack of Mongolia’s papers to the ground. “Sorry,” he mouths, but China is busy taking his temperature, warm palm to clammy head.

China puts a hand to neck, feels the pulse there. It is staccato and erratic, and England jolts forward so hard in a spasm that they almost knock heads.

“Fucker, watch where you’re… spasming.” He finishes, poorly.

England spits a word, wretched and in vain.

The world fails around him, fades to black.

(He would think, in his last waking thoughts, that it was particularly poignant that his last words were garbled, sweated curses.)

(He would think, that with China by his side, maybe it was to be expected that old souls died in weird catharsis.)

***

Sometimes, in life, things happen that he never expects.

Sometimes those things happen in death, too.

He does not expect, not in a million years, that when you died-

He breathes a breath, choking out through warped lungs, and he says-

America and Australia and Scotland, Canada, his brothers and his charges; They gather around him. They place gentle hands on him, and he thinks, ‘oh God,” and before he knows it he’s crying.  
  
The tears singe sallow skin, and he thinks that it was unfair that he should be allowed to blink back into existence.

Silence around him, punctuated by heaved breaths.

“If it-” he chokes. “If it makes you feel any better,” he curls out. “When you-” a cough that sounds as wrecked as he is, and then-

“If it makes you feel any better, when you die, nothing happens.”

And that’s it.

He doesn’t roar out of existence, doesn’t go with a bang nor a whimper. Instead, England goes quietly, and he goes with the same kind decorum that he’d worn even when digging swords to brethren’s flesh.

He goes without saying goodbye, not properly.

England, blinking out of existence, dies in the middle of a meeting with hundreds of eyes resting on him.

England, in his last, half-wrought thoughts, thinks that perhaps it was poetic that he didn’t die alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Your comments and likes go a long way. If you like this fic, please consider following my Tumblr, [here](http://verulamfic.tumblr.com).


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